This chapter hasn't been rewritten yet. I decided to rewrite the first five chapters because I wasn't fully satisfied with them. If you're reading this, that means Chapters 1 through 3 have already been revised, but Chapters 4 and 5 have not. So if you notice any inconsistencies, formatting changes, or differences in style, that's why. I just haven't gotten to those two yet, but I'll be updating them soon. Until then, if you spot issues in Chapters 4 and 5, don't worry, that's expected.
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[Cuiviénen. Year 1135 of the Trees. Dawn of the Great Council]
The assembly hall felt different today.
Heavier. Like the air itself knew what was coming.
I sat in my usual seat—somewhere between a chair and a throne, we'd never really decided which—and watched the Elders file in. Thirty-three clan heads. Fourteen Tatyar, eighteen Lindar. And me—the only one here who could trace his blood back to the First Three, the progenitor clans.
Seventy-two lineages woke at Cuiviénen. Thirty-three stayed when the rest left for Aman.
These were their leaders. My Council.
Behind the Elders came my advisors. Eol—smithing. Mireth—healing. Caldor—construction. Celestia—warfare. Angrod—scouts.
The Small Council, some called them. The ones who actually got things done.
Together we made up the Great Council. Voices and hands. Talk and action.
Thirty years, this arrangement had held.
Time to see if it could handle what came next.
"We're done debating," I said before the murmuring could start up again. We'd been going in circles for weeks. "We all know what's out there. The only question is when we move."
The room went quiet.
"Angrod."
He stood. His face told me everything before he opened his mouth.
"The orc camp across the lake—two thousand now. Maybe three. Hard to count when they keep moving between fires." He paused. "They're building things. Ladders. Rams. Crude work, but it'll do the job."
"Armed?"
"Better than before. Stone spears instead of clubs. Shields." Another pause. "They've been watching us. Copying what works. Watching our patrols."
Talagan, one of the Tatyar elders, shook his head slowly. "They learn fast."
"Too fast." Angrod's voice was flat. "And they're not scattered anymore. Someone's pulling them together. Organizing them into something that looks a lot like an army."
I let the silence sit for a moment.
Three thousand orcs. Maybe more. Organized. Armed.
We had two thousand people total. Five hundred could fight if we pushed it. Real warriors? Two hundred fifty.
We'd beaten a hundred and fifty once. Cost us plenty even then.
"We leave," I said. "Soon."
"The wagons still need—" Eol started.
"They're good enough." I didn't mean to cut him off, but I was tired. Tired of preparations that never seemed to end. "What you've done will hold. We go with what we have."
Mireth spoke up. "Food's loaded. Medicine's packed. Seeds are catalogued."
"So the question is when," Thoron said. Old Thoron—first one to stand with me at the Sundering, all those years ago. "When do we go?"
"Three days."
The words landed hard. Even though we'd talked about this. Even though everyone knew.
"We finish what we can. Then we burn it all and march."
Someone made a sound—half gasp, half protest.
"Burn?"
"Everything." I looked around the room, met their eyes one by one. "Nothing left for them. No shelter. No tools. No food. Just ashes."
"But it's our home—"
"Was." I stood up. "Now it's a death trap. We stay, we die. We leave, we live. That's the choice."
Nobody argued. Not really. They knew I was right. They just didn't want to hear it said out loud.
Talagan broke the silence. "He's right. We've talked enough. Time to move."
Reluctant nods around the chamber.
"Three days," I said again. "Get your families ready. Check your loads. Say whatever goodbyes you need to say."
They filed out. Some stopped to grip my arm or exchange a few words. Most just left, faces tight with grief.
When the room emptied, I slumped back in my chair.
Thirty years. Everything we'd built.
Gone in three days.
The acorn was warm against my side. I touched it through the leather pouch but didn't take it out.
Not yet.
Soon.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Same day. Afternoon. The healers' house]
Lómiel's hands shook as she wrapped the bandage.
Five dead. Five since the raids started three months ago.
Tarandil. Celepharn. Nimlos—cut down when three hundred orcs hit the walls at night.
Lindis—went out gathering herbs, never came back. They found what was left of her three days later.
And now Tarnion.
Strong kid. Spear through the gut two weeks back. Held on longer than anyone expected. Screaming, most of it, despite everything they tried.
This morning he finally stopped.
"Another one." Mireth's voice was hollow. She pulled the cloth over his face like she'd done it a thousand times. Maybe she had.
"Five in three months."
"Five too many."
The door opened. Selas walked in—didn't knock, never did anymore.
"How many?"
"Tarnion's gone."
Something flickered across his face. Then it was gone, hidden behind that wall he'd built up these past months.
"His family knows?"
"They're with him now."
He nodded, started to turn away.
"How much longer?" The words came out before Lómiel could stop them. "How long until we leave?"
"Three days. Council just decided."
"Three days." She laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. "How many more die in three days?"
"Fewer than if we left tomorrow without enough food." His voice had an edge she'd never heard before. "We do this right or we don't do it."
"And if we wait too long?"
"We won't." He met her eyes. "I promise."
Then he was gone.
Lómiel stood there in the lamplight, surrounded by bandages and knives and jars of medicine, and wondered if three days would be fast enough.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Two days later. The walls. Night watch]
"Something's moving out there."
Angrod's whisper brought every guard to attention.
They stood on the eastern rampart—the one facing the orc camp across the water. Nothing but darkness out there, broken by hundreds of campfires.
"Where?" Selas appeared beside him. He had a habit of doing that.
"Watch the fires. See how they're shifting? They're moving things around. Getting ready."
Selas watched. Counted. Calculated.
Too many fires. Way too many.
"How long do we have?"
"Days. Maybe less." Angrod's jaw was clenched tight. "When they come, it'll be everything they've got."
"They won't get the chance." Selas gripped the wooden railing until his hands ached. "We go tomorrow. First light."
"Tomorrow? The Council said—"
"The Council didn't see this." He gestured at the ominous movement across the lake. "Plans change. Tell everyone. Tonight we finish loading. Dawn, we burn it down and go."
"People won't be ready—"
"Then they'd better get ready fast. Because if we're still here when that horde moves, none of us make it out."
Angrod stared at him. Then nodded and went to spread the word.
Selas stood alone on the wall, watching the enemy fires multiply.
Three days. That's what I promised them.
Looks like we get one.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[That night. Various locations]
Word spread fast.
Tomorrow. We leave tomorrow.
Families worked through the night by lamplight. Loading wagons. Packing what they could. Saying goodbye to houses they'd lived in for thirty years.
In the forge, Eol hammered out one last batch of arrowheads.
"For the road," he told Tavor. "For whatever's waiting out there."
"Think it'll be enough?"
"Has to be."
In the healers' house, Lómiel and Mireth packed in silence.
"Running low on wound herbs," Mireth said.
"Nothing we can do about it."
"What if we can't find the same plants out west?"
"Then we learn to use different ones." Lómiel shoved another jar into the crate. "Same as always."
At the training grounds, Celestia drilled her warriors one more time.
Not because they needed it. Because they needed something to do with their hands. Something besides thinking about what tomorrow meant.
"Shield wall!"
They snapped into formation. Clean. Professional.
Ready as they'd ever be.
In the Council chamber, Selas sat alone with maps spread before him. Tracing the route west. The same path the Eldar had walked thirty years ago.
Hoping it led somewhere safe.
Hoping they'd find it before the orcs found them.
The acorn pulsed against his chest.
He took it out. Held it up to the lamp.
Still glowing. Still gold. Ilvëa's Light, unchanged after all these years.
Tomorrow. I'll add mine. Make it something new.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[Dawn. The lakeshore]
They gathered without speaking.
Two thousand Avari. Men, women, children, elders. Standing on Cuiviénen's shore while the last stars faded overhead.
Behind them, the settlement was burning.
They'd lit the fires themselves. Building by building. Workshop by workshop. Home by home.
Nothing for the orcs to take.
{ Image: The Ashen Farewell }
Smoke climbed into the sky—a black column visible for miles. Thirty years going up in flames.
Fifty wagons waited, loaded and ready. Warriors stood armed. Children pressed close to their parents, too scared or too confused to cry.
I stood facing them and felt the weight of it. All of it. Every pair of eyes. Every hope. Every fear.
What do you even say?
I took a breath.
"Avari!"
My voice carried across the water.
"Look behind you. That's our home burning. Look ahead—that's everything we don't know yet." I let that sit. "Thirty years ago, we could have avoided this. Could have followed the Valar to Aman. Safe. Protected."
I paused.
"Controlled."
A murmur ran through the crowd.
"We said no. We wanted our own path. Our own choices. Our own mistakes."
My voice got stronger.
"Now we choose again. Not because some Vala commands it. Not because we're running scared. Because we're smart enough to know when to hold ground and when to give it up. When staying means dying."
I looked at them—faces I'd known for three decades. Every one familiar.
"This is our journey. Not theirs. OURS."
People straightened up. Lifted their heads.
"We're taking everything with us. Everything we learned. Everything we built. The skills. The knowledge. The strength. All of it."
Something was building in my chest—emotion I'd kept locked down for months.
"We'll cross lands nobody's mapped. Face things we can't imagine yet. But we'll see wonders too. Things no Eldar ever dreamed of."
My voice rose.
"We'll find a new home! Somewhere the orcs can't reach! Somewhere we can build something REAL!"
Energy crackled through the crowd.
"We didn't bow to the Valar! We didn't break when times got hard! We will NOT break now!"
They erupted. Two thousand voices shouting back at me, at the burning ruins, at the world.
I let them. Let the fear turn into noise, into rage, into something they could use.
Then I walked to the water's edge.
And knelt.
Silence slammed down.
Cold water soaked through my clothes, lapped against my knees.
"Lake Cuiviénen." My voice came out quieter now, but it carried. "Where it all began. Where we woke up. Where we learned what we were."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
"You kept us alive, all those years. Water to drink. Fish to eat. You were there when the Eldar left—watched them go without a backward glance, without even a thank you."
My throat tightened.
"We stayed. And you kept us anyway. Thirty years. You were always here."
I opened my eyes, stared at the water.
"Now the darkness is here. The orcs. And we're not strong enough—not yet. We have to go." My voice cracked a little. "We have to leave you."
Wind picked up. Ripples spread across the lake.
"But this is NOT abandonment. You hear me?"
Louder now.
"I claim this place. SACRED. Forever part of our realm—the Avari realm. Not theirs. OURS. By right of staying when everyone else left. By right of thirty years of work and blood and everything we gave."
I stood, water streaming off me.
"We'll come back. If not us, our children. Their children. This isn't goodbye. Just—farewell. For now."
The roar that answered me shook the air.
I let it wash over me. Then I drew my knife.
Grabbed my hair—silver, long, grown for decades—and cut it off at the shoulder.
Dead silence.
Hair was sacred. Everyone knew that. To cut it willingly—
They needed to understand what this meant.
I held the severed hair over the water.
"I'm Selas. Son of Enel and Enelyë. The first one to refuse the call. Chief because you chose me."
Tears ran down my face. I didn't wipe them away.
"Goodbye, Mother of Awakening. Our first home. Our only true home."
My voice dropped to almost nothing.
"Goodbye…"
And for just a moment, I wasn't here at all.
I was somewhere else. Somewhen else. Saying goodbye to things I'd never see again no matter how long I lived.
The grief almost took my knees out from under me.
I shoved it down. Locked it away. Later.
"But we'll be back!" I shouted it at the sky. "I swear it! This isn't the end!"
I opened my hand.
Wind—stronger now, almost alive—caught my hair and carried it out over the water. Silver strands spreading across the surface like a promise.
I turned. Held out the knife, blade toward me, hilt toward them.
They understood.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[An hour later]
They came one by one.
Thoron first. Of course. First to stand with me at the Sundering, first now.
He knelt. Drank from the lake. Washed his face. Cut his hair and let the wind take it.
Then the others.
Whole families came together. Parents guiding children through the ritual.
Kneel. Drink. Cut. Let go.
Some cried openly. Some stayed stone-faced, holding it in.
Little kids who didn't really understand copied their parents anyway. Cut little pieces with help from bigger hands.
Eol's hands shook when his turn came. The smith who'd forged our first bronze, cutting away his last tie to the place that made him.
Celestia. Lómiel. Mireth.
One after another.
The lake's surface filled with floating hair. Silver, dark, everything between. A memorial nobody planned.
When the last one finished—a tiny girl whose mother had to help her hold the knife—I walked back to the water alone.
The acorn was hot in my palm.
Ilvëa's gift. Thirty years old. Still glowing gold.
I knelt and plunged my hand into the cold water. Acorn and all.
Poured my Light into it. Silver joining gold.
White fire blazed—blinding, just for a second—as the two Lights merged into something neither of us could have made alone.
When I pulled it out, it had changed.
Still gold at the core. But now there were silver threads running through it. Like starlight caught in amber.
"Thank you," I whispered. "Part of you comes with us. And from this—" I lifted the transformed acorn "—we'll grow something. A tree. A symbol. Something to remember."
I stood.
"Goodbye, old friend."
Warm wind hit me.
Not real wind. Something else.
Osanwë. Mind speaking to mind.
The lake—or whatever spirit lived in it—answering.
Not words. Images. Feelings.
Gratitude. For thirty years of respect. Of care.
Sadness. At the silence coming.
Hope. That we'd keep our promise.
And underneath everything—
Go. Get strong. Survive. Come back when you can. I'll be here. I'll always be here.
I couldn't see through the tears.
"We'll remember," I said out loud. "I swear it. On everything I am. We'll remember."
The presence faded. Like morning fog burning off.
I stood alone. Acorn glowing in my hand like a piece of captured star.
Two thousand people waited behind me.
I turned.
Held up the acorn. Let everyone see the light—gold and silver wound together.
"This is what we carry! Both lights! Past and future! Everything we were and everything we'll be! And from this—we build something NEW!"
They cheered.
Different this time. Not anger or grief.
Hope. The raw kind. The kind that hurts because you're afraid to feel it.
I put the acorn away, safe against my chest.
Faced the wagons. The warriors. The long road west.
"Avari! MARCH!"
We did.
We walked away from Cuiviénen. The Water of Awakening. Where everything began.
Some looked back. Kids waving at the shore. Old ones whispering last words. Warriors burning the view into their memories.
Smoke still rose behind us.
Unknown waited ahead.
Mountains in the distance, barely visible through the haze. First obstacle of however many were coming.
We'd deal with it. Deal with all of it.
Because that's what we did. What we were.
Avari.
The ones who said no.
The ones who chose their own way.
We'd get through this.
We always did.
—•——•——•——•——•——•—
[End of Chapter 5.1]